Taming His Scandalous Countess (9 page)

Trent bent over her. He smelled of
brandy and unwashed skin.

"My dear countess, I believe
your memory is returning."

Isabelle blinked. Her vision of the
past wavered and dimmed.
She remembered everything.

"You know, Trent, while your
tale was entertaining, it missed the mark when it came to relating actual
facts."

The Earl of Snow ambled into the
room, a pistol in his hand. He nodded at Isabelle.

"I apologize for the delay in
finding you, my love. I came as soon as I could."

Trent spun around. Shock slackened
his features. He took a step forward.

"Stay where you are."
Snow's voice was as cold as his name. Trent faltered.

"What you've left out from
your story, Trent, is that your sister was born to be a whore. She came to
London to make her fortune on her back and she did so. She chose me as her
protector and then left me when a richer prize came along. She is now ensconced
as the madam of the most exclusive brothel in town and, I imagine, rolling in
guineas. Pity she hasn't shared any of it with you, or is that your real
grievance?"

"You're lying!"

"Why would I bother? I am not
ashamed of the life I've led. But you're ashamed of your sister, aren't you? At
least she had the gumption to live her life on her own terms. Shame and envy
are uncomfortable bedfellows, are they not?"

"But the child..."

Snow waved the pistol. "I
believe she did have a child, but it wasn't mine. If I know Lizzie, she
probably has the child living with her here in London."

"You think I'll believe you? A
liar and a libertine..."

Snow interrupted. "I don't
give a damn what you believe. You are less than nothing to me, Trent. I'm here
to collect my wife. And to see you in hell." He took aim with the pistol
and fired. Trent leaped to one side. He rolled across the floor, grabbed a
pistol from his stocking and pulled the trigger.

Snow staggered back. Blood bloomed
from a wound on his shoulder. He hit the wall and slid down, a look of surprise
on his face.

"Snow!" Isabelle
struggled to her feet.

"Stay where you are,"
Trent snarled.

"I'm quite all right, my
love." Snow pressed a hand to his shoulder. "Just a little
embarrassed. Didn't think the secretary had it in him."

 Trent started towards him.
"Let's finish this, my lord."

"I'm sorry, Isabelle."

"Julian!" she screamed,
and the world wavered.

*
* * * *

The door slammed open. Winter burst
into the room, a thin, bedraggled woman clutched under one arm.

"Am I late?"

He thrust the girl ahead of him
into the room. She fell to her knees and cast him a venomous look over her
shoulder.

"I found this lurking around
the door. Friend of yours, Trent?"

"She is my wife." Trent
licked his lips.

Winter eyed his friend. Snow lay
slumped against the wall, his hand pressed to his bleeding shoulder.

The major pursed his lips in
disapproval.

"How did the secretary get the
better of you, Julian? It's a damned stain on the regiment, old man."

"My apologies. Cursed fellow
had a second pistol stuffed in his stocking."

Winter regarded Trent with
disapproval. "Bad form."

Trent sneered. "You seem to
forget that I have the weapon."

"Can't kill us all with one
shot. I'd say you're done for, Trent."

A thin smile stole over Trent's
face.

"How do you reckon that,
Major? His lordship is down for the count. I can shoot you, and then deal with
your friend."

"Sorry, Trent, I don't like
your chances. You don't seem much of a shot. Rather a weedy sort of fellow, in
fact. You'll only have one try, you know." The major cracked his knuckles.
"If you don't kill me with that first shot, I'll tear you to pieces."

Trent's wife squealed and crawled
over to her husband.

All Trent's attention was focused
on his wife and the major. Isabelle dropped silently to the floor and crept
over to Snow's discarded weapon. Her hand closed over the butt. The gun shook
in her grasp. Isabelle took a deep breath and steadied the pistol, using her
other arm for support. She cocked it. Trent spun at the sound. Isabelle fired
and he fell, his curse muffled by the carpet. His wife shrieked and threw
herself on top of him. Trent groaned and tried to roll over.

Isabelle stumbled to her feet and
ran to her husband.  She ripped a piece of her petticoat, pushed his hand away
and pressed the linen to his wound.  His hand came up to cover hers and their
eyes met.

"If I could move, I would kiss
you," he told her.

"Later."

"That's a promise."  Snow
closed his eyes.

*
* * * *

Snow cursed as the major settled
him into the hired coach. Isabelle dropped into the seat beside him. She had
bound up his wound as best she could. She wished for something to dull the
pain, but the laudanum Trent had stolen to subdue her was gone. Just then the
major thrust a flask into her hand.

"For medicinal purposes
only." He flashed her a grin.

"Thank you, major. For
everything."

"No trouble at all, Lady
Snow."

He stepped out of the coach and
banged the door shut.

Snow struggled to push down the
coach window. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Julian, I'm sending you back
to town. You need a doctor."

Snow started to protest, but the
major overrode him.

"No time for arguing, damn
you. Just shut up and let us take care of you. I'll deal with Trent and his
wife."

Isabelle leaned forward.

"Do you think he'll
survive?" She had no desire for another death on her conscience, no matter
how justified.

"You just winged him. His wife
is dealing with the wound. When she's done, I'll tie them both up and find the
local justice. I believe his name is Logan. We went to school together. You
will never see them again. Trust me."

Winter stepped back and pounded on
the door. Isabelle heard the snap of the coachman's whip, and the carriage
lumbered forward.

"They'll be lucky if they live
to meet the justice."

Isabelle turned her head. Snow was
pale, though his breathing was regular. She placed two fingers on his wrist.
His pulse was a little tumultuous, but that was only to be expected.

"Will he kill them, do you
think?"

Snow sighed. "I suppose not.
Disappointing, really. But Winter's become quite respectable in his
dotage."

"His dotage? The major cannot
be much above forty."

"He seems older."

Isabelle laughed, relieved to find
her husband in good spirits, after the ordeal they'd all gone through.

Snow clasped her hand.

"I'm sorry, Isabelle. Trent
would never have targeted you, if not for me."

"His wife bears the same
blame. And she would never have convinced Trent to use me, if not for what I
did to Charlie." She leaned back against the seat. "I'm sure you
would not choose to wed a murderess."

Snow's grip tightened.

"I would marry you, no matter
what. You must know that."

Isabelle pressed his hand. Relief
coursed through her.

"Besides I consider you more
Charlie's executioner, than his killer. He let your child die. I only wish I
could kill him myself."

Isabelle raised his hand to her
lips and kissed it.

“Thank you, my lord.”

Snow's fingers brushed her jaw.

"Call me Julian."

She took a breath. "I will, my
darling, if you tell me who Angeline is, and what she means to you."

Snow drew back. "Where did you
hear that name?"

"From you, you called for her
in your dreams. Did you love her very much?"

Isabelle's heart trembled as she
waited for his answer. She longed to know the truth, almost as much as she
feared it.

Snow's voice came slowly, as if it
traveled back from the past.

"I cared for her, we all did.
But I was never in love with Angeline. She was the mistress of one of
Napoleon's officers, and a spy for the French Royalist forces. We worked
together in Spain during the war."

Isabelle waited, knowing there must
be more to the story. Something which explained her husband's nightmares.

"I met the major and Frost in
Portugal, when the war began. We became friends, though our backgrounds were
quite dissimilar."

The coach bumped over the rough
road, and Snow winced. He reached for the flask.

"Tell me later, Julian. You've
been wounded and you're tired. I can wait to hear your story."

Snow shook his head.

"No, you've waited long
enough, my love. I want to tell you everything."

He took a long sip of whiskey, and
cleared his throat.

"Back in England, we might
have had nothing in common, but on the battlefield, we became brothers. We
fought together, drank and diced together. And there were women, plenty of
them. Anything to dull the fear and the death which surrounded us.

“We became so close, we were a
byword in the army. 'If you want to find Winter, just follow Frost and Snow.' I
suppose the men thought that was witty. You see, I'd been Julian Beaufort when
I enlisted. By the time we landed, my elder brother was dead in battle and my
father passed away from a stroke. I became the Earl of Snow. I could have
resigned my commission, but deserting my brothers-in-arms seemed impossible.

A smile flitted across Snow’s face.
“They called us the Cold Gang.” He shook his head.

“Once we got to Spain, after
fighting our way through Portugal, Major Winter was asked to form an
intelligence unit. Frost and I joined him, and we met Angeline. She set up a
meeting with a French source, who promised to furnish us with information about
Napoleon's battle plans. I was ordered to accompany her, and we were
captured."

Snow paused, lost in thought.
Isabelle wanted to reach out, to place her fingers over his mouth, so he
wouldn't have to relive those terrible memories. But perhaps, if he faced them,
those memories would lose their power over him.

"It was back in '13, after the
battle of Vitoria. Someone betrayed her, betrayed us. Who, we never found out.
We were locked up together. Of course, we refused to speak to our captors. So
they tortured her, for days."

Snow rubbed his eyes.

"I thought I would go mad. I
would have spoken at the last, I think, to save her. But she wouldn't let me.
Angeline made me promise not to break her trust, not even to save her life. She
was so brave, Isabelle. But she screamed, Christ, how she screamed. I couldn't
see what was going on. That was part of my torture - to imagine what they were
doing to her.  At the end, she died quietly. She couldn't take any more. They
let me see her body: so much blood, so much pain."

Isabelle placed her hand on his
thigh, where the muscles were rigid with nervous strain.

"What happened after
that?"

Snow exhaled. "Some of the
French left with her body. I imagine they wanted to show her to General
Marchand, her lover. I passed out, and when I came to, the major and Frost were
there. They'd tracked us to the cellar where we were held and killed the
soldiers guarding us."

He shook his head. "I've never
seen Frost like that. I thought he would go mad with the pain of losing
Angeline, in such a terrible way. He loved her, I know, though he never said
so. It changed him, made him into the cold bastard he is today. God, I'm
tired."

Snow dropped his head on her
shoulder, and Isabelle stroked his hair. Her heart bled for him. There had been
so much tragedy. Thank goodness, it was all over now, though not for Frost. He
still suffered. Isabelle, safe from her captors and holding her husband in her
arms, still could not forgive Frost, but, perhaps, she could understand him.

*
* * * *

One week later

Snow dropped a kiss on Isabelle's
hair. She lay close within his arms, warm and sated after making love for
hours. His embrace tightened around her.

"I can't apologize enough for
believing Trent's note, for thinking you could ever leave me like that."

Isabelle ran her fingers down her
husband's belly. He rewarded her with an indrawn breath when she wrapped them
around his cock.

"There's nothing to forgive.
Trent was a clever man. He used your worst fears and mine, to manipulate us. He
had a knack for making people twist and dance to his liking." Her caresses
grew bolder.